


Make-a-Wish

by VelvetPaw



Category: Hockey RPF, Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Fairy Godfather Alexander Ovechkin, Fluff, Gen, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wish Fulfillment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 10:16:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14258814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelvetPaw/pseuds/VelvetPaw
Summary: Because secretly, doesn't everyone want to be a Penguin?By this time they have arrived at the entrance to the Penguins dressing room.  Sid pulls the door open, “Welcome to the team, Connor.  You’re hugely, unofficially a Penguin for a day--or a morning really,” Sid’s innate need for honesty prompts him to add.  Connor stares at the stall where a Penguins jersey with his name and number waits in all its black and gold splendor.





	Make-a-Wish

It’s not that Connor doesn’t want to be the best, because he totally does.  And the guys he plays with are all great guys and amazing hockey players, and he loves them, he really does, but sometimes in the heart of the night when he’s on a plane or alone in his bed, he can’t help dreaming about what it would be like to play with the very best. To have a team and a partner, both on and off the ice, who suit him perfectly--like Geno and the Penguins seem made for Sid.  And sometimes in the dreams he barely lets himself even remember, he wishes he’d been just a little more _average_ , just good enough to be drafted in the low first round, low enough that the Penguins might have traded up to get him, and maybe, just maybe, he could have played…No, better not to even finish that thought.

 

* * *

 

He knows better, he really fucking does, but somehow when Auston Matthews and Bo Horvat corner him in an elevator and demand he go out drinking with some of the younger players at the All-Star Game, he just can’t say no.  He knows that getting trashed and doing stupid things is an integral part of All-Star Weekend, but somehow he doesn’t think “stupid” begins to cover it when he finds himself leaning drunkenly against Ovechkin, confessing, “Fuck, I want that.”

Ovechkin looks down at where Connor is kind of sagged against him, then follows his line of sight to the dance floor where Geno is dirty dancing with a frankly awkward looking Crosby.  “Want Russian teammate? So sad you have to make do with second rate German, I know.” When Connor rubs his head against his shoulder in what Ovi takes to be a no, he continues, “Awkward Canadian hockey robot with no rhythm? Look around, take your pick, so many to choose from!”  Connor giggles as he watches friends and rivals from across the league prove that moves on the ice really don’t translate into moves on the dance floor.

“No, I want,” Connor sighs, not quite drunk enough to know he shouldn’t finish the sentence but still drunk enough to finish it anyway. “I want that.”  He nods at where Sid is giggling up at Geno as Geno bends down to kiss him long and dirty.

Ovi’s face softens as he watches his friends make googly eyes at each other.  “Ah, want hockey bond? Soulmate? Best power play unit in NHL?” Ovi pauses after each question to watch the expressions on Connor’s face—longing, envy, wistfulness.  At the last Ovi blinks. “Really? You want the best power play unit?” He narrows his eyes as he watches Connor’s face carefully, “Hmm, no. You want to play _with_ the best power play unit.  Fuck, you wanted to be a Penguin?”

Connor stares at him, eyes enormous and guilty as fuck, before denying everything.  “Oh, fuck no! No really! That’s not what I meant at all. God, I am so drunk. I didn’t mean that at all.”  Connor continues his denials even as he pulls himself upright and slides out of the booth. “Look, forget it. I’m drunk and don’t know what I’m saying, and I didn’t say that anyway, you misunderstood what I meant, so I’m just going to go back up to my room, and yeah, bye.”  Connor waves half-heartedly as he wobbles his way toward the exit.

Ovi just rolls his eyes fondly and goes to look for Nicky.  News like this is too good not to be shared.

 

* * *

 

“No, Sasha!  You need to stay the hell out of this.  He didn’t mean to tell you, and he wouldn’t appreciate you spreading it around the league.  Besides, lots of guys dream of playing with Sid. I’ll bet there’s not a guy in the league under 25 who didn’t jerk off to his highlight reels at least once.” Nicky glares at Alex over a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon the next morning at breakfast.  He rubs at the center of his forehead, trying to ease the hangover headache he’s fighting. Why had he let Alex talk him into spending his All-Star break here with him rather than relaxing on a beach? Oh, yeah—sex.

“But it would be so fun!  Kind of like granting a Make-A-Wish wish for kids.  Sid and Geno are good guys; they’d go along with it,” Ovi pleads.  Not that he’d ever admit it, but he kinda loves to meddle which Nicky knows very well.

“What we go along with, Sasha?” Geno grumbles as he plops down into the chair next to Alex, stealing his almost full cup of coffee then growling when Alex tries to protest.

Alex takes a quick look at Nicky’s scowl, “Nothing.  Don’t worry about it, it was nothing, really.” He dons his best innocent expression when Geno and Nicky both glare at him suspiciously.  When Sid sits down and joins them, distracting Nicky with chatter about the upcoming skills competition, Alex leans over and whispers in Russian, “Come find me later.  Alone. Need to talk about special project.” Geno eyes him curiously but gets the message and just nods.

 

* * *

 

They don’t play the Pens again until March, and by then Connor has totally forgotten (mostly) about his drunken almost-confession to Ovi.  He refuses to think about it when they lose to the Pens in a shootout. And he especially refuses to think about it when he’s lying in bed that night thinking about how fucking brilliant the Pens power play unit was when they scored that second goal.  Sid and Geno flying up the ice, no-look passes connecting like the puck was magnetized to their blades, so perfectly in sync it was like they were of one mind. He refuses to think about how magical it must be to have someone who gets him so effortlessly, who reads his play like, like—fuck he doesn’t even know.  He just knows it has to be the best feeling in the world. And if, when he’s just on verge of sleep, he wonders what it would feel like to play with Sid and Geno instead of against them, well, there’s no one there to tell on him.

 

* * *

 

A loud pounding on his door wakes him at—he lifts his head to glance blurrily at the clock on the hotel beside table—4 fucking 30 in the morning.  He debates ignoring it and pretending to not be there, but the heavy thumping refuses to stop.

“This better be a goddamn fucking emergency,” he grumbles as he pulls open the door just far enough to see Evgeni Malkin standing there looking equally sleepy and grumpy.  “What the fuck?” He looks around, looking for random teammates or a camera crew sure this must be some kind of prank.

Geno snorts and shoulders his way into Connor’s room, shutting the door behind him.  “Get dressed. Hurry. I’m double park.”

“What’s going on, Malkin?  Why are you here?” Connor asks, still completely sure there’s some kind of prank at play.

Geno huffs out a huge sigh, mutters something under his breath in Russian, and finally says, “Please just get dressed, come with me, I explain in car.  Not prank, promise.”

Connor stares for a long moment but can’t really think of a good reason Geno would be in his room except for a prank.

“Fine, come in pajamas.  Don’t care, but must leave in 5 minutes.  Your choice,” Geno looks obviously down at his watch.

Connor decides that if he’s going to get dragged somewhere at 4:30 in the fucking morning, he wants to at least be dressed, so he grabs his clothes and hurries into the bathroom to change.

Malkin thrusts coat and toque at him the minute he exits the bathroom, not waiting for him to pull them on before he’s out the door.  “Hurry. Don’t want to be late. Flower most grumpy if we make him wait.” Connor grabs his shoes and follows, hopping, skipping and jumping down the hotel hallway as he tries to finish getting dressed while keeping up with Geno.

When they finally make it to Geno’s car—illegally parked in the cab lane in front of the hotel—Geno thrusts a cup of coffee at him and takes a huge swallow of his own before pulling out of the drive at what feels to Connor like rocket launching speed.

“Oh fuck!”  Connor clutches his coffee trying not to spill it as they fly down the pre-dawn empty roads of Pittsburgh.  “Where are we going exactly?” When Geno refuses to answer, he looks around spotting his gear bag in the back of the Porsche.  “Is that my gear bag? Seriously, Geno, what the fuck?”

As they near the UPMC complex, Connor’s brain starts connecting the dots.  Hockey player, hockey gear, ice rink… “Is this some kind of weird rookie hazing thing?  Cause I gotta tell you, I’m pretty sure that shit is supposed to be limited to your own team.”

Geno huffs out an amused snort.  “Always so talkative in morning? Maybe is some weird Canadian generational talent thing?”  He looks over at Connor who’s now looking far more awake then any civilized person should look at this time of the day and rolls his eyes in exasperation.

“Well, being kidnapped by the Russian hockey mafia will do that to you,” Connor defends himself hotly, causing Geno to actually grin.

They pull into a spot in the player’s lot, and Geno gets out of the car.  “Grab gear. Hurry up.” He heads for the player’s entrance, leaving Connor to struggle to get his gear out of the frankly tiny sports car and run to catch up.

Connor is glaring daggers at Geno’s back when the door opens and there’s Sid. “Oh, hey, Connor.  Welcome. Glad you could make it.”

Connor’s level of “what the fuck” flies off the charts as he looks back and forth between Sid and Geno. “Yeah,” he says slowly, “Me too.  What exactly am I here for again?”

Sid frowns then turns to glare more seriously at Geno.  “What did you do, G, just kidnap him from his hotel room without explaining anything?”  Geno shrugs and shoulders his way past them, heading off down the player’s corridor.

“Goddamn it!  I knew I should have sent someone else, but since we were keeping this on the down low,” Sid apologizes even as he gestures for Connor to follow Geno down the hall. “Oh, well, maybe this is better after all.”

By this time, they have arrived at the entrance to the Penguins dressing room.  Sid pulls the door open, “Welcome to the team, Connor. You’re hugely, unofficially a Penguin for a day—or a morning really,” Sid’s innate need for honesty prompts him to add.

At Sid’s announcement, an entire team of Penguins looks up from putting on their practice gear to stare at Connor standing in the doorway.  “Happy Make-a-Wish Day,” Geno says with a dopey grin on his face, pointing Connor toward a stall where a Penguins jersey with his name and number waits, in all its black and gold splendor.

“But I didn’t wish, I’m not sick, I don’t,” Connor starts and stops several times, finally tearing his gaze away from the jersey to look back at Geno.

“You have a meddling Russian fairy godfather,” Flower chortles, coming over to pat Connor on the back.  “Welcome to the team. Now get dressed, we’ll still make you pick up pucks if you're the last one on the ice.” He swats Connor lightly with his stick before waddling out the door and toward the ice.

“He’s not kidding,” Sid says heading for his own stall.  “Better hurry.”

As Connor gears up as rapidly as he can, he can’t help but listen to the hissed conversation going on between his “Captain” and his “A.”

“I can’t believe you just kidnapped him out of his room, without explaining anything, G.  I’m honestly amazed he even came with you,” Sid grouses as he pulls on his base layers and, yes, that had to be the most disgusting jock in the history of hockey.  Connor ducks his head as he tries to conceal his laughter at confirming the long standing rumor for himself.

“I brought coffee,” Geno mutters back, like that makes all the difference in the world.

“And I thought we were keeping this quiet, just Flower and a couple defensemen?  How the hell did we end up with the ENTIRE team at a highly irregular, probably illegal morning skate?”  Sid’s lacing up his skates by rote as he glares daggers at Geno, waiting for an explanation.

“I’m text Flower, tell him we grant wish for baby hockey player,” he grins cheekily at Connor, who flushes and glares back, “say we need goalie and ask him to bring Tanger and maybe Olli.  He want to know why we have to do at oh-my-God-so-early. Try not to tell but,” Geno glowers and shrugs, “Goalie mind tricks. He say sure, no problem, he round up extra players. I’m say okay.”

“Geno,” Sid’s voice is exasperated and fond.

“No yell at me Sid!  Evil goalie mind tricks!”  Geno pulls his sweater on and practically runs for the door, Sid and Connor hot on his heels.  There’s a long moment where they all look at each trying to figure out who is going out last.

“Me three years Superleague,” Geno says with a grin.

“Me twelve years NHL,” Sid’s grin is equally cheeky.

“Fine,” Connor says, sure he’s got a stupid grin on his own face as he leads them out onto Penguins ice.

 

* * *

 

It’s a surreal feeling skating out of the home team tunnel in someplace other than Edmonton.  Connor is sure his face is doing all sorts of stupid things as he joins players in black and gold jerseys making warm up laps around the rink.

The warms ups are the same familiar ones he’s been doing since juniors and the chirping feels comfortable and friendly.  In the absence of a coach, Sid is directing the practice, and they start with shooting drills “to wake up Flower.” Connor knows he’s grinning from ear to ear when he fires one past Flower into the net and hears, “Osti d’criss de tabarnak!” It’s so different from Cam’s normal grumbling that Connor can’t help the laugh that escapes him as he skates past.

Next up are line rushes, and Connor lines up in the center where he normally does.  When the puck comes to him, he charges the net with Sheary and Rust on his wings, and it’s good.  There’s not much room to work up speed, but they crash the net just exactly where he wants to put the puck and it’s tic-tac-goal perfect.  He throws his hands up in exaggerated celebration, and they crash into his open arms whooping like they’ve just won the Stanley Cup.

“Babies!” Geno taunts, as he and Phil line up on Sid’s wings and send it in with the same elegant precision but with such effortless grace it’s like fucking poetry.

Flower’s storming from the net in grand, dramatic fashion, muttering more French-Canadian obscenities and shouting at Murray to take his place because he can’t take any more of this abuse! His “teammates” are swarming around him, chirping his overly dramatic celly against an “old worn out goalie”—which gets Guentzel a sharp swat to the calves from a passing Flower, causing him to yelp—and Connor can’t remember the last time he had so much fun.

Sid gives Murray a few moments to settle in the crease before he’s calling for odd man rush drills.  As they line up in the defensive zone, Connor lines up once again with Conor and Bryan on his wings. This time, as he gets the puck and charges up the ice, they’re racing ahead of him with breathtaking speed, leaving Cole and Schultz scrambling to catch them. He passes to Conor, who throws it back to him so fast that he barely has time to see it coming before he shuffles it off to Bryan who’s down low so he can tip it into the net so sweet and easy.  He resists the urge to celly, but he can’t help the smug look he flashes Geno as Geno gets ready for his turn at the drill.

He goes to the back of the line, but this time Sid gestures him to the right side, taking his own place at center. A small gesture of his head sends Geno to his left and before Connor can really grasp the fact that he’s _playing on a line with the Pittsburgh fucking Penguins_ , they’re off down the ice like a shot.  Tanger is instantly in his face, but Connor fakes right, goes left and before he can even think to call for the pass, the puck hits his stick, and he’s backhanding it into the net easy as you please.

“Not bad, rookie,” Sid says with a bright grin, “let’s see if you can do it again. Left side this time.”

Geno huffs, “Beginner’s luck”, but he does give Connor a little tap on the ass as they switch lines for the next drill.

This time, Sid holds the puck, letting Connor and Geno rush ahead.  Geno’s battling with Trevor Daley and Brian Dumoulin is sticking to him like glue, but Connor pulls up short, letting Brian skate past him, then he’s got the puck on his stick (where the hell did that come from?!), and he’s charging the net with a clear shooting lane.  Murray gets a glove on it, deflecting high, but the play was so sweet; he’s beaming as he swings back for another pass.

After a couple more passes, Sid calls a break and they all skate to the sidelines for water.  There’s a lot of good-natured chirping about their newest “winger;” Flower loudly hoping that management didn’t overpay for that sort of limited ability.  Connor knows he’s grinning ear to ear like a total goof, but he just can’t help it. Before he knows it, Sid’s setting up teams for a scrimmage. Cullen is pulling on stripes to referee, and Kunitz is grabbing a whistle and clipboard to “coach” the other team.

He looks around at his team:  Sid, Geno, Olli, Kris, Tommy Kuhnhackl, Scott Wilson and Patric Hornqvist—these guys who got up at an ungodly hour on an off day just so that he could live out a childhood fantasy, and his heart feels like it might explode with all the messy emotion it’s drowning in.  

“So, Connor, you good with taking the first faceoff?”  Sid looks up from where he’d been diagramming a play on a clipboard and meets Connor’s eyes with a small smile.

“Yeah, Sid, I’m good.”  They break the huddle and head out to center ice.  It’s just a practice scrimmage, and Connor expects it’ll be fairly relaxed, so he’s surprised when he flips the puck back to Tommy, and he races down the ice at top speed.

They chase the puck back and forth racing up and down the ice like the Cup is on the line, Connor laughing and flushed at the end of each shift until Cullen blows his whistle and sends Rusty to the box for “two minutes for stupidity.”  Rusty protests all the way but heads for the box, putting Sid’s team on the power play.

“That’s us, kid.  Let’s go,” and with that Connor’s going over the board with Sid and Geno for the power play of his dreams.

Kris passes the puck up to Sid at center ice, and they start to cycle the puck around the net.  Sid to Geno who feints at the net then passes it back to Sid who tosses it down to Connor. Ruhwedel’s stick is blocking his lane, so he spins it over to Geno who shoots.  Murray gets a glove on it but fails to hold it and Sid snags the rebound. Connor’s barely gotten reset when he sees a lane open in front of him and, just that quick, he feels the puck hit his stick and he one-times it into the net over Murray’s shoulder. Sid and Geno swoop in, offering him hugs and head pats, and Connor feels like he’s flying.

It isn’t long before the penalties start raining down, “Two minutes for tripping—over his own feet.”  “Two minutes for running over the ref, goddamnit!” “Two minutes for dramatics!” And each time sends Sid, Geno and Connor over the boards.

 

* * *

 

Unbeknownst to the team, Coach Sullivan stands in the tunnel watching.  He’d come in early to prepare some game tape for later review when he heard the distinct sounds of a hockey game coming from the ice.  It’s six in the morning, and the rink doesn’t open for the public until 8:00; there’s no reason anyone should be out on the ice at this hour.  As he heads toward the ice to see exactly what the fuck is going on, he recognizes the distinct sound of Cullen yelling, “Two minutes for bad acting!”  And okay, that’s definitely his team fucking around on the ice.

He stays in the shadows confused about why the team would be holding a full scrimmage practice at six in the goddamn morning on an off-day without telling the coaches, when he sees McDavid go over the boards on the power play with Sid and G.  He rubs his eyes, convinced he’s seeing things because that looks like Connor McDavid in a Penguins jersey, and that can’t be right, can it?

“I really need more coffee,” he mutters as he watches McDavid center the line, Sid and Geno slipping effortlessly to the left and right. The puck flies between the three, cycling around the net before Geno ducks into the crease, perfectly positioned to tip it in if only he’d get the puck…. Before Sullivan can even finish the thought, the puck is in the net, a perfect pass from Connor happening seemingly at the speed of thought.

“Well fuck me sideways,” a voice breathes beside him.  Mike looks over to see assistant coach Mark Recchi at his elbow.  “I don’t know who you had to blow to get him here Mike, but it was so totally fucking worth it!”

Mike snorts out a laugh.  “Glad you think my skills would be good enough, but there is nothing I could offer that would get that kid on our team.”

Mark whines softly. “Fuck, you mean we can’t keep him?”  They watch as Sid, Connor and Geno skate back to the bench laughing and patting each other on the back.  Patric Hornqvist says something that makes them all laugh as they collapse on the bench.

Play progresses, and it’s not long before the top line—all centers and wouldn’t that give Don Cherry something to complain about—takes the ice again, flowing like water down the ice and around the four (four, really?) d-men currently surrounding the net.  It should be awkward, three centers who’ve never played together before battling over who gets to run the play, but it’s just…not. The sheer hockey IQ on the ice right now is enough to make Einstein feel like a dunce, and it’s just fucking magical.

When Sid slips inside the pocket, Mike can practically feel the pass coming from across ice where Connor just finished wrestling it off the boards from Dumo.  It happens in a blur, so fast he’s not even sure it’s gone in until Cullen blows the whistle signaling the goal.

“That’s game!” he hears as the teams come off the ice chattering and laughing.

He and Mark exchange quick glances before ducking back the way they came, unwilling to interrupt whatever the hell this is.

“That was just…” Mark starts.

“fucking unbelievable,” Mike finishes.

“Yeah,” Mark agrees.  “You know, we probably witnessed the greatest line to ever take the ice, right?”

Mike just nods.  He knows he’s never seen anything quite like it, and he’s pretty sure the entire world hockey community never has either.

“Damn!  We should have taken video!” Mark laments.  “No one’s ever going to believe us, you know that, right?”

“Probably for the best,” Mike tells him, “we’d lose our jobs so fast if anyone ever saw him in a Pens sweater….”

“I guess,” Mark says mournfully, “but it would almost be worth it to be able to brag to my kids someday.”  They close the door to the video review room quietly, not wanting anyone to know what they’ve seen.

 

* * *

 

Connor sits in his stall, flushed and breathless and just so goddamn happy it hurts.  He’d known that their hockey was exceptional, some of the best on the ice, but fuck, when they were all together it was GLORIOUS!

Sid just laughs at him when he says so, and Geno pulls him into a headlock ruffling his hair before letting him go.  “Not bad, rookie. You can be my winger any time,” Geno tells him. Connor laughs and chirps back as they troupe toward the showers.

When they’re finally all dressed, the Pens stop by to say their individual farewells before slipping out of the still-quiet arena in pairs and small groups. Soon, it’s just Sid and Geno and Connor, and they’re headed to the door.  Connor takes one last look around the room before he follows Sid into the player’s parking lot.

“I’m going to drive you back to the hotel,” Sid tells him as they step out into the crisp cold morning air.  They shove Connor’s gear into the back of Sid’s SUV then head out into the early morning Pittsburgh traffic.

Sid finally breaks the silence, asking, “So, was it everything you hoped it would be?”

Connor opens and closes his mouth several times, trying to come up with words to describe the feelings.  “Yeah, it was.”

Sid’s grin flashes bright for a moment, probably amused at his eloquence, but all he says is, “I’m glad.”  They drive the rest of the way to the hotel in silence.

When they get to the hotel, Sid drives around to the back.  “You can slip into the loading docks over there and take the maid’s elevator up to your floor.  Less likely to attract attention.”

Connor opens his door to get out when Sid pushes something at him.  He looks down to see “his” Penguins jersey, his name and #97 stark against the black and gold.  “Better dispose of the evidence.”

Connor looks back at Sid, knowing he will keep this souvenir until the day he dies.  “Yeah, I’ll take care of it.” Connor opens the back door to grab his gear, tucking the jersey into a zippered pocket and closing it carefully. “Thanks, Sid, for—everything.”

“My pleasure, Connor.  See you round.” Sid waves as Connor ducks into the back door heading for his room.  “Really, my pleasure.”

 

* * *

 

Geno gets a text message later that night.  “So, how was it?”

He texts back in Russian, “It was good,” then sets aside his phone to go find Sid.  He finds him in the kitchen, reheating a bowl of pasta for a late night snack.

“Do you think it’s odd that Sully cancelled practice this morning?” Sid asks as he gives the noodles a quick stir.

Geno shrugs, “Pretty sure not oddest thing about today, Sid.”

Sid giggles and steps into Geno’s arms for a hug. “Yeah, guess not.”

 

* * *

 

“See, Nicky!  I told you everything would work out just as I planned!” Alex gloats when he gets Geno’s text.

“You got lucky this time, Sasha. Don’t think this gives you license to meddle in other players’ lives,” Nicky glares at him as if he can prevent Alex’s meddling tendencies by will alone.

“But Nicky,” Alex whines.

“No. No more meddling.  You’re too ugly to be a fairy godfather.  Now come to bed, I’m tired.”

“But Nicky, what if Auston Matthews always wanted to be a Cap?  Be shame not to give him a chance…”

 


End file.
